A Gift and a Responsibility

On a morning in late April more than 30 painted turtles were perched on a floating log in the pond, soaking up the sun and 70 degree warmth. What is it that breaks the spell of hibernation and spurs them to leave the cold mud of the pond bottom?  How can they possibly know the conditions above the water line?  They spend months buried in ooze, “breathing” through their butts, not eating, growing stiff from lactic acid that accompanies long stretches of low metabolism. Then, prompted by some timeless cue, they haul themselves from the mud, climb onto a floating log, stretch out their necks, and bask in the ecstasy of an April sun. 

We found three newly hatched turtles this spring no bigger than nickels. They were a couple hundred feet from water, on a treacherous journey challenged by obstacles and predators.  Last summer we found several females laying eggs in hard-packed rocky soils, two hundred feet or more from water. They could have laid their eggs closer, in sun-warmed sandy loam, but didn’t.  I don’t have to understand. Their decisions have proven effective for millions of years. 

There are three broods of goslings on the pond, a total of fourteen. They have merged into one group and are guarded by a single pair of adults.  I don’t see the advantage. Broods that stick with their birth parents maximize the ratio of adults to young which would logically improve their odds of survival. But they do what they do and my suggestions on the matter have no influence. 

The birds are back— the orioles and catbirds and thrushes. Bluebirds have claimed nest boxes now coveted by house wrens and English sparrows. Everywhere is competition— for nest sites, for mates, for food, for space. There is no shortage of strife and conflict.  What appears as perfect harmony is fraught with unrest. It’s not all peaceful and pretty. 

We’re not so different from them. We’re prone to compete and defend, and can delight in the first warm days of spring. We do what we do, but our actions are less driven by instinct and more by subjectivity or impulse or pure greediness. 

We have the ability to reason and empathize but can still be cruel, hateful, and overtly stupid. We can have a solid understanding of science yet hold firm to practices and lifestyles that are not sustainable.  We can know our activities are chiseling away at global biodiversity yet be recklessly slow to change our ways. 

The soil in the garden is soft and warm on bare feet. I’m in the zone, planting sweet onions— 30 per row, five-inch centers.  With luck, in July we’ll have onions the size of softballs, mild and sweet. They will accompany potatoes and greens, tomatoes and sweet corn, carrots and fresh herbs.  We’ll nurse them along, enjoying fresh harvests, then fire up the canner and dehydrator when the time is right. A deep satisfaction resides in a pantry of homegrown goodness. 

There are no prerequisites for the barefoot gardener, no basic biology or agronomy. He can be unaware of the connections between birds and insects and crop yields and still enjoy a great garden. He can rely on fungicides, synthetic fertilizers, and insecticides without understanding their wide ranging toxicity, or knowing that organic methods have comparable, often superior results with fewer inputs and massive environmental benefits.

Some reconciling is in order. Just a few lifetimes ago the land our house and garden occupies was deep forest.  The entire state was forest or prairie or wetland. If the land had not been cleared we would not be here doing what we do. If not for infrastructure, housing, a willing and adequate workforce, medical and research institutions, and advanced learning, our society would look much different. 

We strong-armed our way across the country, taking land by force, and began a massive transformation. They were innocent times, driven by hard working immigrants seeking opportunity.  

But enough already. Perpetual growth as we know it is not an option. 

We got an inch of rain yesterday and this  morning we’re in search of yellow sponge mushrooms. The birds are active— the white eyed vireo, the indigo bunting, the parula warbler. We wind our way through a gauntlet of invasive Amur honeysuckles, cursing their existence and the threats they pose to woodlands, then realize we’re not so different from them. We both alter habitats and claim land as our own. But honeysuckles don’t understand science. Neither do turtles or geese. We do, or should, and how we use our knowledge and empathy, our reasoning and judgement, is both a gift and a responsibility.